


Chocolate Frogs

by Farmulousa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Archivist Pansy, F/F, Flirting, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, No seriously they don't even kiss, Romance, Slow Burn, fuck terfs, lawyer Hermione, rated mature for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:47:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24702544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Farmulousa/pseuds/Farmulousa
Summary: When the Trial of the Century is being held at the Wizengamot, Pansy has to work with the only woman she can't keep her cool around.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 71
Collections: Before the Spring Snaps: The Classics





	Chocolate Frogs

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [BTSS2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/BTSS2020) collection. 



> This was written for Fairest of the Rare presests Before the Spring Snaps: The Classics.
> 
>  **Prompt:** Atticus Finch (To Kill A Mockingbird)
> 
> A MASSIVE thanks for my alphabet team of [Ravenslight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenslight/pseuds/ravenslight) and (I kid you not) my Mum. My Mum was an English teacher for forty years and taught To Kill A Mockingbird for twenty. She is the only person I could have had to check the plot for me and I am so grateful to her because she HAS NO INTEREST IN HARRY POTTER. None. She did it purely out of kindness, which is incredibly in character for her. 

In Pansy Parkinson’s opinion, there was no better sound than that of high heels on the cobbles of Diagon Alley. The crisp  _ click-clack  _ of her mother’s vintage black satin stilettos against the shiny stones at her feet made warmth blossom against her sternum. 

These shoes, and a few pieces of clothing, were the only things she had kept of her parents’ possessions before everything had been confiscated by the Ministry following the war almost ten years ago. There was no money, no jewels, no gold, but there were two pairs of shoes and a fabulous cocktail dress with matching robes that were too timeless to be sold at auction with the rest of her belongings. 

Draco and Pansy had lived above Flourish and Blotts for almost two years now. They had moved from place to place after they had escaped the war nearly penniless with just their lives and their freedom. This flat had been the best accommodation yet, it was clean and bright and, with the right silencing  __ charms, even bearable during the rush before the start of the Hogwarts term.

Tapping on the wide brass door knob with her wand, the wards washed over her pleasantly before the door clicked open. If Pansy hadn’t been looking down to check her shoes were still clean, she wouldn’t have noticed familiar purple pentagons sitting neatly against the step. 

This was the third time this month that Pansy had come home to find chocolate frogs at her doorway. There was never a note, and they were always under a stasis charm to keep them perfect in any weather, which was perfect to her as this November had been unusually cool, and Pansy didn’t care for cold chocolate. 

Picking up the sweets from the step and walking up the stairs to the kitchen, Pansy shook her layers from her shoulders and placed them on their respective hooks on the landing. 

“Pans?” Draco called from somewhere she couldn’t see in the flat. His footsteps preceded his entrance into the kitchen, wearing his work trousers and shirt but with the top button undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbow. For Draco, this was practically loungewear. He turned, igniting the stove with his wand as the kettle settled atop it, and pulled two mugs down from the cupboard. “You’re back late.” 

“There’s going to be a big meeting in the morning.” Pansy sighed, rolling her eyes and making a face to communicate the amount of work she would have had to put in. “Percy Weasley had me compiling texts and historical documents all afternoon.” 

“Potter said something to the same effect before we left today.” Draco nodded as he leaned against the kitchen counter.

“Chocolate frog?” Pansy offered, tossing the little boxes onto the table. 

“Again?” Draco muttered distractedly looking out the window. 

“Mhm,” Pansy replied,.“You know Ollivander won’t miraculously appear if you stare at his shop for long enough. 

“I thought I saw him today when I came home from work.” Draco sighed, turning to lean against the work surface facing Pansy. “Do you think he knows I live here?” 

Pansy had resigned herself to answering the same questions regarding the mystery of Ollivander’s disappearance from everyday life, but she still sighed. “He testified for you in front of the Wizengamot. He personally  _ thanked you  _ for keeping him alive while you were  _ both  _ imprisoned in your home. He is an old man who has probably retired.”

“No one has seen him though,” Draco countered lamely as he turned back to the window. 

As the kettle whistled, Pansy stood from the table to pour the tea and conceded—if only with herself—that it was odd that they hadn’t ever seen Ollivander in the two years that they had lived there. 

  
  


Usually, at quarter to eight in the morning, it would be very quiet in the Minister’s offices. The Minister never got to the office before 10.00 a.m. as he was renowned for working long into the night. Hence the staff often got there by nine and were hard working but fairly relaxed until Kingsley Shacklebolt made an appearance with Percy Weasley at his heel. 

This morning, however, was different. Every single member of the Minister’s staff was there. The meeting wasn’t for another two hours, but Pansy was suddenly overcome by relief that she had stayed late to get her work done last night. 

Having a small conversation with Salazar Slytherin about how much she would appreciate it if she had already done whatever would be requested of her, she placed her handbag down on her chair and mourned the idea that she would actually sit at her desk today. 

The second best sound to that of her heels on the stone of Diagon Alley was the click of them on the glossy wooden floor of the Ministry Archives, the only place of calm and quiet in the whole building. Subsequently, it was the only place that truly felt like it belonged to Pansy. She may not have been interested in books or knowledge at school, but she had worked hard enough that a job doing grunt work for the Minister for almost no money was hers by the time she was nineteen years old. It had taken all of five minutes in the Archives on her first day to solidify what she wanted to do, and it had taken two years for her to get it. 

On a plaque above her desk, her name shone brightly with her title: Head Archivist for the Minister for Magic. The dark gleaming floors and fifty foot bookcases were all hers. 

Opening each of the papers she had received that morning, Pansy’s thoughts stuttered and her mind raced. They all wanted to know variations on the same subject. 

Werewolves. 

The Minister’s staff were included in Auror meetings all the time. As an ex-Auror, Kingsley liked to keep an eye on who was doing what and where. You could take the man out of Law Enforcement, but no one could take Law Enforcement out of Minister Shacklebolt. 

Percy Weasley led almost the whole staff into a lift in the nearly empty atrium as they jostled in disconcerting silence in the opposite direction to DMLE. Pansy knew that she was the first to have noticed when she jerked her chin sharply towards Percy who was making a performance of looking anywhere but her with a stoney face. He was the most senior aide amongst Minister Shacklebolt’s staff and probably the most professional person Pansy had ever worked with; there was no way he’d give away why they were hurtling so far down that there was only one place that they could be going. 

The Department of Mysteries.

Perhaps, if Pansy was some sort of Gryffindor or—Merlin-forbid—a  _ Hufflepuff,  _ her eyes may have bulged out of her sockets. Instead, the shock travelled back and forth in her brain trying to piece together what she was going to walk into. When the lift stopped and she followed the sharp echo of Percy’s leather loafers against the black marble, things started to whir and click around her mind.

She had to think. 

She had to be  _ prepared.  _

All the papers and documents she had compiled the night before were to do with Wizengamot trials. She hadn’t thought much of that, as one of the natural ends to her work was that it was used as evidence, but everything she had collated and distributed this morning had been on werewolves. 

Pansy’s brain lit up like fireworks as her brain came to the logical conclusion, a werewolf was going on trial. 

“Please let the Minister know that we’re here.” Percy had come to a stop and spoke with a proud, projected voice to the witch at the desk. A werewolf trial hadn’t happened in nearly fifty years according to the history she’d read the previous evening.

Pansy couldn’t believe that it had taken this long for her to figure it out. This would be history in the making; this would truly change things. The white noise of her inner thoughts faded away as she followed Percy with the rest of the staff into a meeting room down the corridor. 

Sitting at one end of a long table was the Minister, a pair of older witches that Pansy recognised as members of the Wizengamot, and Hermione fucking Granger. 

Pansy’s skin felt too tight; too warm. 

She willed everything in her to not react to Granger’s presence. The witch wasn’t taking part in the conversation between the other three; instead, she read from a file in front of her so stacked with papers it appeared as if it was there to compete with the leather bound documents in Pansy’s arms. 

Pansy could count on one hand the times she had seen Granger since they had left school after retaking their final year. They had gone on different paths. Pansy had put her head down, ignored the disgust on people’s faces and worked very hard to be completely invisible. Hermione Granger had also put her head down and worked hard but had done so with the spotlight of fame and accomplishment following her everywhere she went. 

To say that Hermione Granger had blossomed after leaving school was an understatement. 

She was, in Pansy’s opinion, immaculate. She’d worn cream suits made of expensive fabrics with silk camisoles underneath on the few occasions Pansy had seen her. Once she had worn a perfectly tailored tweed suit with a crisp white shirt, and Pansy had needed to close her mouth to avoid her own saliva making a dive for the floor. 

Now, her hair bounced around her head as if it weighed nothing, curls hovering around her in orbit as she hugged a nervous and embarrassed Percy and swivelled to grin at Pansy. 

Her whole presence brought lightness with it; her taste in suits was merely sparkle that caught the eye. 

The last time that Pansy had seen Hermione in the past nine years had been, in a word, mortifying. 

_ They had both been invited to drinks for Percy Weasley’s birthday. Pansy had come to the pub in a black linen wrap dress with a flared skirt that she often wore for work in the warm weather. It was reliably chic and held on to cooling charms incredibly well. Having been quite pleased with that evening thus far, she felt every hair on her body stand to attention when she saw chocolate curls above Harry Potter’s head as the Golden-sodding-Trio walked in. It was remarkably difficult not to stare at her, to gawp in a way that would have  _ incensed _ Pansy’s mother.  _

_ Pink.  _

Pink. 

_ Hermione Granger was wearing pink. A perfectly flowing silk smock dress in a light pink that made her dark skin  _ glow _. She had a pair of mule heels in a darker pink on her feet that made the curve of her ankle and shins look like she simply floated with the movement of her dress. She never wore much makeup, but a flush in her cheeks from the heat of the summer afternoon made Pansy want to scratch walls. Granger was a vision—she was heaven.  _

_ She was everything Pansy had ever wanted.  _

_ Granger shook a few strangers’ hands before enveloping everyone she did know in hugs paired with kisses on cheeks, laughing loudly at something Charlie Weasley said as they both walked over to the bar. The bar where Pansy was standing in a black dress on the hottest day of the year as a real-life summer goddess glided towards her. Turning to pick up her icy gin and tonic, Pansy looked away from where Hermione ordered a white wine, lamenting being unable to close her ears from the sound of Herminoe’s voice.  _

_ This woman was all warmth, all sunshine. She thanked the barista for her drink and gave her the money, and Pansy listened hard for the sounds of her footsteps so that she would be able to adjust her posture and continue to avoid her, but then brown eyes and  _ so much hair _ came into her field of vision.  _

_ “Pansy!” Granger greeted her happily, “Percy said you’d be coming.”  _

_ Percy had been talking to Granger about her? Curiosity bubbled up and filled her mind until it popped out of existence because Hermione Granger’s hand was on her arm.  _

_ It would make sense that they didn’t hug; they barely knew each other anymore, and when they had known each other, they’d hated each other in a way that only adolescent girls could. But this touch,  _ her _ touch, felt like sanctuary from that hatred. Granger’s body heat seeped into every pore of Pansy’s body. It felt that if Pansy didn’t concentrate solely on keeping herself upright, she would melt onto the bar and run down the sides like ice cream on a hot day.  _

_ “Granger,” Pansy said in the most pleasant tone she could muster with her teeth grating so hard she could crack glass.  _

_ “Oh, I’d say we’re past all that, aren’t we?” Granger laughed and squeezed her arm like it was normal. Like they were friends. Like Hermione Granger would enjoy the company of Pansy Parkinson. “Call me Hermione, please?”  _

_ Hermione’s eyes were round, golden brown in the light coming through the windows of the pub. They sparkled as she blinked at Pansy, expecting a response.  _

_ “Hermione. Of course,” Pansy replied before attempting to take a sip of her drink. This would have been fine—she could have been a normal witch—but Granger’s hand fell from her arm, skimming over her skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake. There wasn’t a chance in hell that Pansy could be normal when faced with her entire body convulsing in panic; she snorted the drink through her nose, and the splatters created dark pink pock marks over the front of Hermione’s silk.  _

Just as Pansy thought the memory might cause her to throw up in her mouth in one of the Wizengamot chambers, a third of the Auror department arrived. Draco and Potter sat at the conference table, and the rest of them lined the walls with some of the Ministerial staff. Draco looked her in the eye, his expression warning her:  _ get ready.  _

“Please be aware that this meeting is taking place outside of the official schedules of everyone involved,” the one of the women started in a high soft voice, “and that everything disclosed will be strictly confidential. That being said, I will hand this over to my colleague, Lady Heather Harrow.” 

“Thank you, Beatrix,” Lady Heather replied softly as she stood in front of the group and raised her wand to conjure the face of a man that Pansy had seen reflected her paperwork only this morning. “This is Joseph Norton, a registered werewolf from Kings Lynn in Norfolk. In yesterday’s early hours,he bit a woman, Romilda Vane, while changed and under a full moon. She has alleged that the bite was unwanted and has reported the alleged crime to the Wizengamot.” 

The room was stone erupted in conversation.

“ _ SILENCE,”  _ Minister Shacklebolt commanded with his wand to his throat before Lady Heather continued.

“Mr. Norton has been unable to acquire counsel for a Wizengamot Trial. Instead, he has been provided representation by Ms. Hermione Granger, who will represent him before the hearing that will take place in five days time.”

Lady Heather sat down, and the Minister gestured for Hermione to take the floor with a look on her face that dared the murmurs to start again. Today’s outfit was no less faultless than Pansy had seen in the past ten years. She wore a pair of black, high-waisted cotton slacks; a black, faux dragonhide belt; and a short sleeved white shirt that draped over her shoulders and waist before tucking neatly into her trousers. As she rounded the front of the table, Pansy spied that her loafers matched her belt, and the chair holding Pansy upright was the only thing that stopped her from swooning to the floor. 

“Joseph Norton may be a registered werewolf, but he is also a Charms Master. He was home educated by his mother, the renowned Charms scholar Nora Norton, and he took his O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s at the Ministry a full two years earlier than anyone else of his age. He has been working at a small wizarding bookshop in Norwich for the past three years and has had no need for any supportive services since he was changed at the age of twenty-three by a man that suffered from lycanthropy and was never found. He has made a statement that you will all find in your packs on the behalf of the defense that states—” 

_ Pung.  _

The whole room made the noise, and Potter sighed as he got up from the table; he crossed the room then tapped on the door with his wand. His body language deflating, he pinched the bridge of his nose before making quick but not insignificant eye contact with Draco who also sagged in his seat. Looking between the two men, Pansy couldn’t fathom what would have them so downhearted. 

Bursting through the door, an arm appeared in the room through the wards. The door hit Potter square in the face, and both Pansy and Draco snorted before looking down and away. Old habits died hard. 

The fun at Potter’s expense died in Pansy’s chest as walking into the room was possibly the most vile person Pansy had ever come across _ — _ and her parents were Death Eaters. 

Cormac McLaggen. 

There wasn’t a person alive who could compete with how much of a sheer cunt Cormac McLaggen was. He breezed through offices to take over conversations that weren’t his business; he would try to gain time with the Minister without an appointment by flirting with Kingsley’s personal secretary, and, worst of all, he wore black robes with tan leather shoes. 

“Ah yes,” Lady Beatrix said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “This is Prosecutor McLaggen, who will be representing Miss Vane.” 

Chaos enveloped the room. 

  
  


It had taken Pansy three days to gather all the paperwork, tests, and files that the Ministerial staff needed before the trial was to commence. 

Striding down the corridor of the DMLE towards the holding cells, Pansy could hear raised voices. One in particular made her heart slam harder against her ribs: Granger’s voice rose above the rest. As she turned the corner to where the sign-in desk was, Pansy saw at least six witches and wizards crammed into the small room all facing someone in the middle of their circle. 

“You may not understand that he’s dangerous Miss Gran _ — _ ”

“He must be punished for what he has done. He is a menace to soc-”

“What if it had been  _ you—”  _

Hermione’s face came into view, her upright curls bouncing side-to-side, and Pansy stopped outside the circle. Her wand slid into her hand on instinct, but the fury that rolled across Granger’s features was probably just as effective as any defensive spell Pansy could cast. 

“Excuse me,” Pansy sneered with a delicate cough, “but what on  _ earth  _ is going on here?” 

Silence descended over the men and women who had been shouting in Granger’s face only seconds ago, shame and irritation painted over their features. 

“Because what this looks like is that a group of” _ — _ she looked the crown up and down, attempting to channel Narcissa Malfoy _ — _ “ _ individuals  _ harassing a war hero inside the Ministry.” 

“Ms Parkinson.” Hermione huffed a little but a look of stark relief flickered across her features. 

“Ms Granger,” Pansy nodded, making eye contact that seemed to wind her. It took every ounce of her training, of etiquette classes from age four, for her not to sigh and swoon at the flash of gratitude that shone in Granger’s smile. 

The group looked riotous, but if there was something to be said for Pansy’s reputation as the daughter of Death Eaters, it was that no one wanted to be seen with her. They dispersed slowly, some of them whispering to one another and others pointedly looking away from both women as they left the office space for the holding cells. 

“Thank you.” Hermione exhaled long and steady, and Pansy watched the other witch’s chest deflate from a defensive stance to something a little more relaxed. For some reason, Granger seemed to be comforted by her presence because the woman’s dark features calmed, and a genuine smile broke out over her features. 

“I barely did anything,” Pansy blurted out, sliding her wand back to the holster inside the arm of her robes. “You are more than capable of defending yourself.” 

Shrugging a little, Hermione still smiled at her before collapsing into one of the seats in the waiting area. 

“If they thought they could get away with it,” Granger sighed, making soft but definite eye contact that made Pansy clutch the back of another chair to keep herself standing. “They would treat me the way they treat Joseph. They might all celebrate Remus Lupin as a war hero, but if he hadn’t died... well _ — _ I dread what to think.” 

Startling a little at Hermione’s words, Pansy sat in the chair opposite her and carefully placed her body in an upright, carefully composed position. Granger’s earnest and open conversation caused everything Slytherin in Pansy to constrict and protect. 

“Mm,” was all she could manage in reply. 

“You shouldn’t come to the trial Pansy,” Hermione implored, leaning forward so her elbows rested on her knees as she ran her fingers through her curls and settled her hair on one side of her neck. 

The reveal of Granger’s jawline and neck as her robes shifted to one side and exposed a thin, cream silk camisole tucked into very light tan high-waisted slacks made Pansy’s mouth water. The dark skin unveiled so low against the Golden Girl’s breasts and the barely-there lace of what must have been a  _ bra _ caused everything inside Pansy’s mind to grind to a halt before what Hermione had said resonated. 

“What?” she squeaked, an explosion of disbelief that was unacceptably candid. “It’s my job to be there, Granger.” 

“Hermione,” Granger begged, leaning further forward so that, if she were inclined to do so, she would only have to move her hand slightly to touch Pansy’s knee. With everything she had, Pansy wished that she  _ would  _ be inclined to do so. So much so that she pushed her knees imperceptibly forward in her chair, only to gawk at Hermione’s lips purse and then release as her tongue swiped nervously over them before whispering again, “Please.” 

“Hermione,” Pansy breathed, moving her hand to the edge of her knees and gripping the edge of her skirt to stop herself from trailing a finger from Granger’s jaw to her collarbone. “I did so much work for the trial. I have to be there.” 

“Pansy,” the other witch pleaded, “I won’t be able to concentrate. You must know _ — _ ”

“That is complete drivel, and I expect better of you,  _ Hermione. _ ” Pansy stood, unable to listen to anything more of what could have been the words she’d dreamed of, wished for, and fantasised over. She wouldn’t have a romantic revelation in a Ministry waiting room; it was beneath both of them. 

As she turned, Hermione’s hand reached out to clasp at Pansy’s, and her eyes were so clear and bright with honesty that an ache started to bloom in the centre of the slytherin’s chest. 

“You and I both know,” Pansy whispered, resolving to leave, and Granger’s grip left her. Turning so she could no longer see the earnest clarity in those honey brown irises, she continued, “That you will excel. You will be a force to be reckoned with. You will be Hermione fucking Granger, and I deserve to watch you tear Cormac McLaggen to pieces as much as anyone else. More so, even.” 

In her peripheral vision, Pansy saw Hermione put her head in her hands, but there was no turning back now. There was no falling to her knees on to the well worn floorboards of the DMLE at the witch’s feet. If they were going to do this, they would do it _ — _ but not now. 

  
  


Taking a seat on the courtroom bench next to Draco and Potter, Pansy looked around so quickly she might have strained her eyes.Finally, the tall black door on one side of the curved wall opened and springs of riotous curls preceded the soft but determined features of Hermione Granger.

She was, as always,  _ delectable.  _

A black Muggle suit sat perfectly on her shoulders, hugged her waist, and flared out around her hips. The trousers were narrow and slightly cropped above suede heels that were the same rich brown as her skin. She wore robes around her shoulders that looked to be made out of the same material as the suit, and Pansy envied every stitch of the outfit that got to hang off that body. 

In contrast, Joseph Norton looked entirely different from the pictures she had seen in the meeting five days before. He had dark blue circles below his eyes, and his skin looked sallow.

Watching as every member of the Wizengamot filed into place, and Cormac McLaggen attempted unsuccessfully to  _ wave at his uncle  _ from amongst the representatives. 

Pansy chewed her lip. No one knew what way this would go, and no one knew what history would be made. Except for, apparently, McLaggen because he had leaned back so far in his chair on his side of the room that he may have been asleep. 

Romilda Vane, still as visually forgettable now as Pansy’s memories _ — _ or lack thereof _ —served _ , put on a good show of looking confident but wounded. Someone had put a huge Muggle-style bandage over her left shoulder as if she were in a melodrama about an injured child. Surely someone would point out that werewolf bites heal extremely quickly as, without the ability to do, so the body would have a chance of rejecting the change. 

“Witches and Wizards of the Wizengamot.” Hermione’s voice rang true beneath the curved ceiling of the chambers, and Pansy felt it in her toes. “I would like to request, before we begin, that the cotton bandage attached to Ms Vane’s shoulder be removed.” 

Whispers echoed around the room, thankfully none of them from the Auror’s box as Pansy might have needed to slap someone and she couldn’t be investigated for striking an Auror at a time like this. Shacklebolt raised his hand, and the whispers quieted, whether out of respect for the Minister of Magic or something else she wasn’t sure. 

“For what reason do you believe this to be necessary, Ms Granger?” the Minister asked in a tone that Pansy recognised as neutrality.

“Should Ms Vane have been bitten under the full moon by the registered werewolf Joseph Norton five nights ago,” Granger responded, making full eye contact with Cormac, “she would be healed by now. Should she still have a bite mark on her shoulder, it would mean, if anything, that she was not bitten by a werewolf under the full moon. Only a healed bite could be used as evidence.” 

A flicker of something dark and uncomfortable rolled across McLaggen’s features. He nodded at Romilda Vane who took the bandage off her arm, wincing unconvincingly.

For almost an hour, Cormac went back and forth with his examination of the defense that played out to an astonished silence from those watching. Cormac was flashy; he make jokes and derogatory statements about werewolves and at one point implied that Granger had an intimate relationship with the accused. 

Granger, however, was a  _ force.  _ She wasn’t moving around nearly as much as McLaggen and barely let an emotion cross her face as she brought up facts and testimonies that Pansy had collected for her. Every so often, her delicate hand flourished or tensed as she spoke, and Pansy let her eyes swish and flick along with the movements. By the time Hermione stood to start her examination of the prosecution, Pansy almost rose with her _ — _ willing to go wherever those fingers would take her. 

“Witches and wizards of the Wizengamot,” Granger began, walking around the desk in front of her with papers in hand. Her movements were slow, methodical, addictive. “Joseph Norton does not contest that on the night of the full moon, he bit Ms Romilda Vane and has likely passed lycanthropy on to her.” 

Gasps and whispers erupted in the room; even a couple of trainee-Aurors behind Pansy muttered comments, forcing her hand. She whispered a mild wandless stinging hex at the boys, and they both lifted slightly from their bench with indignant looks before Draco turned and hushed them with a look. When he made eye contact with her, he admonished her in a way that only she could read, so she smiled back defiantly in return. 

Returning to the air, the Minister’s hand silenced the chambers and beckoned Granger to carry on. Hermione’s features settled in a placid and understanding _ — _ but not condescending _ — _ position that she must have learnt after school because Pansy had dreams about the triumph and superiority that took over the Golden Girl’s face when she knew she was right. 

“Thank you, Minister,” she began in a soft voice that made shivers travel from Pansy’s scalp to her coccyx. Some people in that room might think Granger demure, might even think her sweet, but Pansy saw a woman that was lethal. “This is not in itself a crime. The Wizengamot Statute for the Protection of the Lycanthropic Communities of Wizarding Britain and Ireland clearly states that the consenting transmission of lycanthropy from person to person is perfectly legal.” 

Pansy smirked to herself. She knew that law, had made at least twenty copies of that law for this very hearing. Hermione fucking Granger _ wrote that law _ . It was an audacious move, quoting a law you wrote and helped get put through. 

“Minister,” McLaggen started, a derisive look of boredom placed carefully across his face. “Ms Vane did not, under any circumstances,  _ consent  _ to her attack.”

“Are you having that statement added to the Wizengamot record for this hearing, Representative McLaggen?” Granger asked, her chin tuning sharply, brightness in her eyes. She was going to destroy him. Pansy felt every hair on her body lift in anticipation. 

McLaggen affected a contrite frown in a performance of a man with a soul and sighed, “Hermio _ — _ ”

“ _ Representative Granger _ ,” Hermione corrected kindly, not unlike how one would remind an especially dim child. Pansy snorted and lifted her hand to her mouth to cover the beaming smile that tore her face in two. 

“ _ Representative Granger,”  _ McLaggen corrected himself, making a point of pretending he thought that Granger was his equal. Pansy was surprised he could still see her when she was so many echelons above him.

“Representative McLaggen,” Hermione continued, smiling a little too wide and flashing her teeth in a way that made Pansy’s stomach clench. “How much do you know about the Wizengamot Statute for the Protection of the Lycanthropic Communities of Wizarding Britain and Ireland?”

“I work for the Wizengamot, Representative Granger. What do you think?” 

“Well,” Hermione continued, placing a copy of one of her papers in front of McLaggen and the Minister. “You must know all too well that, when it passed, it was made law that Wolfsbane potion be made free to all registered werewolves in Britain and Ireland.”

“Well yes, of course.” McLaggen coughed a little and sat back a little uncomfortably in his chair, flipping through the papers in front of him. 

“Then you must also be more than aware of the footnote in Section 3b on the subject of the brewing of Wolfsbane.”

“Uh _ — _ ” McLaggen seemed to make the noise by accident as his eyes bulged a little before he looked back down at the desk. 

“That the Wolfsbane brewed must not only be traceable in the person’s system for the following twenty-nine days following the full moon but that; with the addition of nettles grown under a waxing moon, it will cause incapacitating but non-lethal pain should someone attempt to bite an unconsenting person or anyone under the age of seventeen.” 

Pansy’s chest rose and fell so quickly she could barely control herself. She leant forwards and smiled as Hermione’s eyes flashed with victory. There was the insufferable know-it-all. She was every teacher’s nightmare and eighteen-year-old Pansy’s daydream. 

“Well,” McLaggen went to answer, but he wasn’t quick enough for Granger. 

“So it stands to reason that if Ms. Vane did not consent to the bite beforehand then Mr Norton would have been incapcitated and unable to do so. Wouldn’t you agree,  _ Representative McLaggen _ ?” 

For the first time in his career in the Ministry, or perhaps his entire life, Cormac McLaggen didn’t look charming. He didn’t have the performance of joviality about his person or a condescending smile on his face. He looked livid. His own anger seemed to be eating him from the inside out. 

Cormac floundered in the papers in front of him as hissed muttering filled the room. Pansy would have put galleons on him never having read them to begin with. Draco and Potter were both reaching for their wands. 

“Do you have the evidence that Mr Norton had taken wolfsbane prior to the last full moon, Representative Granger?” The Minister asked with thinly veiled pride that Pansy couldn’t help but mirror. 

“It was submitted in the packs I presented to the court three days ago, Minister,” Granger replied, a flicker of resigned consternation that not one man in the room had likely read her full set of papers. 

Pansy had. Pansy had watched the way that Hermione’s lowercase ‘h’s and ‘l’s sometimes had loops in them and sometimes did not and had wondered if that was indication of mood or a lack of time for penmanship. Pansy had read three testimonies that Hermione had transcribed and been hooked on the statement for the defense that she had written. She had a feeling that if Granger had taught Muggle Studies, Pansy would have taken it at a N.E.W.T. level. 

“Do either of you have any further evidence to present to the Wizengamot?” Shacklebolt asked, looking a little concerned for McLaggen, who was staring at the desk in front of him with a pale green tide eclipsing his usual sun-kissed skin tone. 

“No, Minister.” Hermione nodded respectfully and returned to her seat. 

“No Minister.” McLaggen muttered slouched in his chair like a scolded child.

  
  
  


When the Wizengamot had been out of the room for more than an hour, the viewing areas started to get a little restless. Draco and Potter had been bickering about something concerning Lovegood for twenty minutes, and Pansy had run out of cuticles to inspect. When she looked down towards the defense table for maybe the twentieth time, however, Hermione was looking back. 

Making eye contact with Hermione Granger should have been on the Defense syllabus in every magical learning institution in the country. Her eyes were so honeyed brown that Pansy could make out the flecks of chocolate in them from where she was sat above. Her face showed no sign of the victory that had crossed it before or the kind and respectful attitude she had held for the majority of the hearing. This was all heat. 

For the first time since Pansy had entered the chambers, she regretted that she had come to watch despite Hermione asking her not to. The other witch might be angry with her _ — _ Pansy had, after all, gone expressly against her wishes. But then her tongue flicked out against her bottom lip so quickly that it could have been regarded as a nervous tick by anyone else, but to Pansy it was clear _ — _ she had Granger’s undivided attention with a heat that was anything but angry. 

Pansy let the corner of her mouth crease just so _ — _ not a smile but the communication of the million and one things that Pansy wished she could have said. How magnificent Hermione had been, how lovey the warmth that spread across her face when the other witch would flick deftly at the corners of papers was, or the thoughts that Pansy had about her jawline as her chin had raised in the air ready to fight for what she believed in.

Blessedly, before Pansy could make a fool of herself this time, the click of the Wizengamot chamber doors opened and the members of the council filed back to their seats. The Minister was the last person to enter the room, and Pansy couldn’t read his expression, but Granger obviously could because she screwed up a piece of parchment in front of her as her shoulder sagged. Joseph Norton put his head in his hands. 

“The Wizengamot has voted thirty-three to nineteen to convict Mr Joseph Norton of sexual assault of Ms Romilda Vane.” Minister Shacklebolt’s voice rang out as his wand rested softly against his throat. His eyes looked dead, resigned to the words he was forced to recite. The unrelenting misery that emanated from his eyes seemed to swallow all noise in the room. 

In an act of supreme idiocy, Romilda Vane stood from the desk of the prosecution with big bubbling tears on her cheeks to scream, “I’m sorry, Joey! My father _ — _ my father said he would disown me, said he would send me away! I love you, I promise. I’m so sorry baby!” 

Riots eclipsed the chambers, and Draco hurried her to the atrium before running back to join the Auror department in keeping the peace. 

Pansy strode across the marble floors, the  _ tap-tap-tap  _ of her shoes echoing around the empty, domed expanse. Time seemed to stretch and compress at strange intervals throughout the day, and when five o’clock came around it was as if Pansy had been sitting at her desk for three days. 

When she had bustled numbly out of the Ministry and through London to Diagon Alley she was so overtaken with the silent sadness in her mind, the devastation of injustice that ran cold through her veins, that she didn’t notice the chocolate frogs on the doorstep until she had already stumbled over them. The little chocolate animals both broke out of their boxes and managed to lodge themselves under the third step of the staircase, butPansy resolved to deal with it  _ tomorrow.  _

Turning into the kitchen she found Draco at the table still in his full Auror robes with his head in his hands and an open bottle of Firewhiskey in front of him. 

“Joseph Norton was attacked while being transported back to the holding cells. Killing curse. He’s dead, Pans.” 

  
  
  


Chocolate frogs appeared on the front step of their flat every day that week. 

Just over a week after the trial and just as Pansy started to feel a semblance of normal, Percy Weasley arrived in the archives and found her refiling papers amongst the bookcases. 

“We’re to attend an investigation into the death of Joseph Norton this afternoon,” he said solemnly. Percy may have been stoic, but he wasn’t heartless and they had caught each other in moments of misery that week. 

Taking a deep breath, she turned to him. “Do i need to prepare anything?” 

“No,” he replied quietly, “but you might want to take your lunch now as we’re being summoned at two.” 

It was unlikely that either of them were meant to know what time they would be involved in an investigation into a death that happened within the Ministry, but Percy’s position probably came with the perk of forewarning and she gave him a small smile and nod of appreciation as they both left the cool air of the archives. 

Walking to the staff kitchens closest to the atrium, Pansy walked in through the double thick wooden doors to see a dining room empty of anyone but Hermione Granger and Cormac McLaggen. 

Neither of them noticed her when she stopped, still as a statue and absolutely quiet against the wall of the room. 

“You have no idea who you’ve crossed, Granger.” McLaggen’s word were kurt and crunched with rage in every syllable. He was too close to Granger, purposefully using his height as a way of intimidating her, but Hermione looked like she would sprout wings of fire. Her hair sparked and crackled with magic, the static coils rising around her as she breathed slowly in through her nose and then out through her mouth. 

“You cannot simply threaten me, McLaggen,” she sneered, and Pansy could have sworn she saw her hair  _ pulse _ . “I have no clue what they’ll ask in the investigation. I’m being questioned the same as you.” 

Time slowed to a halt as McLaggen reared back and spat at Hermione’s feet. 

“ _ Incarcerous, _ ” Pansy yelled from across the room, and bindings wrapped themselves around Cormac’s arms and legs. 

“Pansy,” Hermione gasped, her gaze flickering back and forth between the roaring anger of McLaggen on the ground and Pansy as she walked towards her. 

“Hermione.” Pansy nodded, feeling confident in front of the witch for the first time that she could remember. Rage coursed through her, and as she looked down at McLaggen, who was shouting and throwing around threats from the floor, she smiled. Hermione was a Gryffindor, all bravery and good intentions and fighting for what was right, but Pansy was a Slytherin, and she was none of those things. 

Pansy was careful, she was considered, and she would look after what was hers despite what was good or right. 

Hermione Granger was  _ hers. _

“Look here, McLaggen,” Pansy spoke softly, clearly enunciating every word. “I just watched you assault Representative Granger and threaten to extort her. Now not only was that stupid because _ you _ are  _ inherently  _ stupid but also because you didn’t check for witnesses.  _ Finite.” _

The bindings dissolved, and McLaggen scrambled to his feet to prove that he had clearly learnt nothing. 

“You should be incredibly careful who you cross,  _ Parkinson, _ or you might end up seeing Mummy and Daddy far sooner than you’d think,” he ground through clenched teeth before turning on his heel and stalking out the door. 

“Are you alright?” Pansy asked, turning to find Hermione closer than she expected, so close that she could feel the small puffs of her breath that wafted across her cheekbones. The dark skin of Granger’s face glowed with leftover adrenalin, her eyes widening slightly before she barked a short, sharp laugh. 

“You’re  _ mad, _ ” Hermione whispered and took Pansy’s hand in hers. Her grip wasn’t abrupt like it had been outside the holding cells and her eyes weren’t fiery as they had been in the Wizengamot chambers, but her whole being glowed with something that Pansy couldn’t put her finger on. “I have to go _ — _ for the investigation.” 

“Ok,” Pansy murmured lamely, tugging her hand back, but Hermione’s grip tightened for a second, and a jolt of warm and welcoming magic shot up Pansy’s arm and settled over her shoulders like a blanket. 

  
  
  


When Pansy and Draco returned home a few days later, they both silently went to their rooms. Very rarely did they not spend evenings together, but it had been a week from hell. Cormac McLaggen had been found trying to break into the Ministerial offices, and the whole department had been shaken by the attempted intrusion. She’d even seen Percy lose track of time and flounder with memos, and that had never happened to her knowledge. 

Anxieties were pinging around her brain when a chocolate frog box hit the wall above her headboard and landed next to her. When she looked up, Draco stood in the doorway, looking marvelous. He was wearing a pair of black trousers that he had had tailored when he received a bonus from work last year and a white shirt with a grandad collar and the top button undone. 

“Where are you off to?” Pansy asked and looked down to flick a page of the  _ Witch Weekly _ she had been ignoring on her lap. 

“ _ We  _ are going to Potter’s,” Draco said, moving into the room towards the rail that held Pansy’s favorite clothes. “He’s having a party for Longbottom; he’s been made Head of House.” 

“You and I are going to a  _ Gryffindor _ party?” Pansy laughed a little as she join Draco at the clothes rack. 

“Potter said the Sorting Hat tried to put him in Slytherin,” Draco murmured distractedly as he selected a black cocktail dress with a slit in the wrap skirt that went all the way to her waist. 

“You’ve said before,” she replied as she took the dress from him and shooed him out of her room so she could change. “We would have eaten him alive.”

The door swung open of Grimmauld Place, revealing Ron Weasley with a look of weary resignation across his features. 

“Ferret.” He nodded. “Pansy.” 

“Weasley,” they replied in terse unison. 

Draco disappeared almost immediately _ — _ he always did at these parties. He would seek out Luna Lovegood and simper at her feet like a grateful pet. He had never discussed with Pansy what had happened in the dungeons of his family’s manor, but his obsession with Ollivander and his slightly disconcerting romance with Lovegood was something a mind healer could probably gain years of employment trying to solve. 

Working her way through the hallway and into the kitchen, Pansy found the back door open into the chilly November air. A few people milled about in the kitchen, but they were pouring glasses of wine and beer into various cups before rejoining the fray. As she approached the table where she saw a misplaced, expensive bottle of Muggle whiskey, one of the Patel twins slammed the back door and stomped back into the house. 

Pansy spotted the shadow or masses of curls and moved as quietly as she could into the cold night. 

“Ahem.” Pansy coughed lightly to make herself known, and Hermione’s eyes lifted with annoyance before splitting into a full and candid grin. “Ravenclaws always were rather stroppy.” Pansy offered.

“People in glass houses…” Hermione laughed.

Pansy thought it was meant to be a joke _ — _ they were joking together, weren’t they? _ — _ but she couldn’t figure out what she meant. “What?”

“Oh, sorry. Muggle idiom.” Granger waived off Pansy’s look of confusion with a good-natured smile.”We were removed from the investigation today, you know?”

“No?” Pansy said, suddenly no longer paying attention to Hermione’s short fingernails running through her hair and discarding a few strands that had come loose into the night. Granger looked at the floor, and if Pansy wasn’t always staring so intently at the other witch’s face she would have missed the look of sadness that flicked across and hovered slightly in one corner of her mouth.

“Would you like to go to dinner next week?” Hermione asked then looked at Pansy directly with an exasperated hope sparkling in her eyes. 

“You beat me to it,” was all Pansy could manage as every muscle in her body tensed, stopping her from dropping to her knees at Granger’s feet. 

For a moment, they both smiled at one another, and Pansy could feel warmth radiating from her scalp to the tips of her toes. Neither of them moved even though Pansy wanted to be so close to her that they nearly melded into the same person. 

“‘Mione.” Ginny Thomas came to the back door, and although Pansy had never really had an opinion on the youngest Weasley, she sometimes daydreamed about watching a stinging hex hit her square in the nose. “It’s quarter to ten.” 

“Thanks, Gin.” Hermione smiled and turned back to the kitchen. 

Pansy reached her arm out, ghostly white against Hermione’s dark forearm in the dim light from the kitchen. In a move that made Pansy’s skin vibrate with magic, Hermione twisted her arm so that her hand was also holding Pansy’s forearm. 

They both stood still, looking into each other’s eyes and holding one another before Granger did the unthinkable and swiped her thumb over the soft skin just below Pansy’s elbow and let go. 

Silently, Pansy raged in the garden by herself. There was nothing that made her angier than the feeling of Hermione’s skin leaving her own; it made her want to punch walls and kick and scream. Instead, she stood stone still in the garden of Grimmauld Place and heard the crack of an empty plant pot from a stray flash of accidental magic. 

“Pans?” Draco’s voice came from the back door, and she turned to see a flicker of concern cross his features. “Do you want to head home?” 

“Lovegood gone home?” she countered, still bristling a little. 

“She’s got work in the morning,” he replied softly; reaching a hand out, he offered, “let’s go home.” 

Both in the mood to walk, they passed at least four Apparition points as they walked through London and found themselves coming up to the Leaky having walked in relative silence. 

Suddenly, a warm, sweaty hand clasped over her mouth and nose, cutting off Pansy’s air supply. 

Half of her vision gone and a sharp end of a wand at her neck. The thudding in her ears was overwhelming, the claustrophobic blanket of a silencing charm wrapping over her skin. No one would be able to hear her, Draco wouldn’t be able to hear her, and she couldn’t hear anything but her own pulse radiating through her skull. 

White hot pain ripped through her arm as she felt hard stone collide with her shoulder and hip on one side. Vomit rising in her throat, she pulled both arms above her head, the agony blinded her. Pansy was blind and deaf and cold as she laid against the stone that alternated between what she clung to and what she was smashed against. The world spinning, she tried to grip the slick stone, but the heel of a boot smashed her hand against it instead. 

All the noise came back into the world suddenly as the slack face of Cormac McLaggen hit the cobbled street floor opposite Pansy’s. 

Everything was too loud. She could hear footsteps and shouting and the barking sharpness of an older man’s voice. 

“Pans.” Draco’s voice rattled through her, and she winced so hard that the strain in her arm roared back at her. “Pansy, are you okay?”

“She’s in pain, Mr Malfoy,” the older voice said calmly. “I’ll need to stun her.” 

“Pansy?” Draco said again, and this time the volume of his voice made her whole body shudder and agony violently rip through her. 

_ “Stupefy.”  _

  
  


_ “Renervate.”  _

Everything was too bright. 

White ceiling, mint robes, charmed windows with blinding sunshine in the distance. St. Mungos. 

Pansy closed her eyes tightly in an effort to combat the overwhelming light from all around her. The pain she had felt before was gone, and in its place a subtle ache rolled around her right arm as she twitched in discomfort. 

“Pansy?” a tired, unused voice croaked off to one side. Noise didn’t seem to hurt too much anymore, but it still felt uncomfortable. A hand softly clasped the hand of the arm that wasn’t pulsing with ache. Fingertips slowly traced over her knuckles, the palm was shaking as it carefully cradled hers.. 

“Miss Parkinson?” a sharper yet kind voice asked from somewhere above her. 

“Mhm.” Pansy tried to talk but found her throat was raw. It hurt so much she thought she might vomit. As her torso curled, the pain in her arm exploded, and a firm hand pushed her back to a lying position. A potion _ — _ a pain potion by the taste _ — _ was at her lips almost instantly, and as she swallowed, the knives in her mouth and throat went away, and her arm resumed the waves of discomfort tingling in it upon waking.

“Miss Parkinson,” the voice said agan, “can you open your eyes?”

There seemed to be dry grit under her eyelids because when she did try to open her eyes, all Pansy could feel was the gravelled surface. It was a blissful irritation compared to her arm and ribs. When the light dissipated, a blandly pretty Healer was revealed before she was pulled out of the way by Draco Mafloy. 

“Pans,” he whispered as he dragged his thumbs across her cheekbones a little too roughly, his breathing harsh. “Pansy.”

“Mr Malfoy, that is the second time you have physically moved a member of our staff since you were let back into the room. I will not hesitate to throw you back out,” the Healer commanded as she resumed waving her wand in front of Pansy’s eyes. 

“Come sit, Draco,” an eerie and light voice, which Pansy identified as Luna Lovegood, ordered him. She was wrapped in a large fluffy pink coat with an orange scarf that made her look like a technicolour ball of wool. Draco moved almost instantly to sit in the chair next to Lovegood’s and faced the witch with a familiar devoted expression. She lifted her hand to his face and said, “You’ve only just recovered. I will not have you over exerting yourself.”

“Recovered from what?” Pansy asked, the gravel in her voice calmed by the pain potion. 

“I’m fine.” Draco huffed and kissed Lovegood’s palm before looking back at Pansy. “I’m fine.”

“He’s certainly in better shape than you,” the Healer said before she tapped her wand against the papers at the end of Pansy’s bed. “You had a broken arm in four places. Your hand was shattered and your ribs crushed. You have had as much Skelegro in your system as I can give you in good conscience, but you’ll need to be still and take pain potions for the next few days.” 

“Days?” Pansy squeaked accompanied by a cough deep from her chest

“Careful,” a soft, concerned voice breathed. Turning hesitantly, as a hand gripped hers a little, Pansy took a deep breath.On the other side of the bed to where the Healer, Draco, and Lovegood sat was Hermione Granger. 

Her hair was up. 

Pansy couldn’t remember a time that she had ever seen Granger with her hair up. Pansy didn’t like it. The only redeeming features were the rebellious curls that sprang up around her face and framed her features like a painting. She was wearing a cream roll neck jumper and black high-waisted trousers paired with very clean Muggle trainers.

“Hi,” Hermione said and smiled at her without releasing Pansy’s hand. 

“Hello.” Pansy smiled back before Draco fucking Malfoy coughed to disgusise his snort of laughter. 

“I’m going to retrieve your other guests,” the Healer said, bustling about the room. “Visiting hours are almost over.”

Draco stood up again and moved to the chair on the other side of Pansy’s bed,making small sniffing noises as he looked over her. He had been her best friend her whole life, the most important person in her life, and he’d been injured trying to protect her. Idiot. 

“Ms Parkinson.” An older man’s voice took her out of her mental chiding of Draco. 

Ollivander walked into the room like he hadn’t been presumed a recluse for a decade. He’d obviously aged, but he didn’t appear decrepit or unwell, just slightly paler around the eyes. Behind him was Harry Potter.

“What on earth is going on?” Pansy demanded and winced. Though Hermione reached out slightly, she seemed to think better of it, dropping her hand, and the corner of Pansy’s mouth twitched. 

“Pans,” Draco started, “Ollivander saved us.”

“What?” Pansy asked, hating that she couldn’t concentrate enough to put the pieces together. 

“Cormac McLaggen,” Potter said, . “attacked you outside your flat on Diagon Alley. Ollivander heard the noise outside and defended you. He then brought you both to St. Mungos.” 

“McLaggen?” Pansy couldn't believe it; he’d been livid when she had last seen him in the Ministry kitchen, but she didn’t think him capable of violence. 

“He’s dead Pans,” Draco said. It was the second time in a week that he’d said those words to her, but they still didn’t feel real. 

“McLaggen cast the killing curse,” Potter continued, casually uttering the bombshell.. “Somehow he only hit himself.”

“That’s impossible,” Hermione whispered, her face pinching in immense thought. “What did you do?” She looked at Draco not disapprovingly. 

“I didn’t do anything!” Draco frowne, his voice slightly raised. “I have a concussion! How was I—”

Luna coughed from the otherside of the room. Draco fell silent, though a blush stained his cheeks as he returned to concerned silence next to Pansy.

“The only wand that cast the killing curse at the scene was McLaggen’s. It sort of can’t be impossible, ‘Mione.” Potter shrugged. “But now that you’re awake, I can go file my reports. I’ll see you back in the office on Monday, Mafloy.” 

“I should be leaving, too,” Ollivander said, putting his hand in his pocket. “I hope you’re feeling better soon, Miss Parkinson.” 

Lifting his hand from his pocket, he revealed the deep purple pentagon of a chocolate frog box and placed it next to Pansy’s feet on the bed. Realisation blossomed through Pansy’s brain. 

“It was you!” Pansy gasped, and Draco nodded at the solution to the riddle they’d been trying to figure out for nearly two years. 

Winking so quickly that Pansy nearly missed it, the old man walked from the room with a little nod to Lovegood. 

“We should be off, too. I don’t want to actually be thrown out of the hospital today. The Healer has it in for me.” Draco sighed deeply, standing in tandem with Lovegood, who smiled so broadly and candidly at Pansy that she felt like she might need to look away. 

When they left, Hermione and Pansy were alone for the first time since their rendevous in the Grimmauld Place’s garden.

“I’m so sorry, Pansy.” Granger whispered, gaze dropping to her lap 

Gripping tighter to her, Pansy made a little pained sound that had nothing to do with her injuries. “What do you have to be sorry about?” Pansy murmured, trying to will Granger to look her in the eye. 

“I left the party,” she exhaled, deflating in the chair and leaning her forehead against the edge of the mattress. “I didn’t want to because you were there and we were talking about something that wasn’t  _ work,  _ and I had been a coward about asking you out for  _ weeks,  _ and then I finally did, and you said  _ yes, _ ” Hermione was rambling but Pansy didn’t care to stop her because this was her dream. Apart from half of her torso being broken and not being able to move out of a hospital bed, this was Granger telling Pansy that she had feelings for her, and Pansy wasn’t going to stop her. “You said  _ yes.  _ Why didn’t I just not go home? I could have stayed with you as I wanted. This wouldn’t have happened.”

Pansy did all she could think of doing to quiet the rapidfire thoughts of the most brilliant woman of the age: she placed her hand on her head. Pansy was  _ touching her hair,  _ and it was so soft and silky...  _ gorgeous _ . She quelled her rapidly beating heart as she stroked Hermione’s head, trying to comfort her out of the guilt spewing forth. 

Hermione lifted her head and Pansy’s hand naturally fell to the side of her face. For seconds, or maybe hours, both witches were very still as they looked into each other’s eyes. Pansy’s mind floated somewhere else, and all the thoughts that usually got in the way of her making it clearly exactly how she felt—how  _ much _ she felt—about Hermione melted away as she smiled an unguarded and un-Slytherin grin that split from ear to ear. 

“Where are you taking me to dinner, Granger?” 


End file.
